SNOWHUNTER
by Maximen
Summary: After a dangerous artefact exposes a choice S.H.I.E.L.D. Commando to inscrutable extradimensional entities, the team must come to terms with an unexpected detail about their leader and the obstacles that come with putting of loyalty before family. (Or, Agent Phil Coulson has an opportunity to make right a series of unavoidable wrongs. Some come easier than others.)
1. This Is Not A Drill

.**  
\ * * * * * * /**

**| S.H.I.E.L.D. INTERHOUSE PERSONNEL ALERT |  
*******ACTIVE INCIDENT*****

HIGH-SECURITY DEFENSE AUTHORITIES ISSUE THE FOLLOWING EMERGENCY MESSAGE:

*** THIS IS NOT A DRILL ***

:_repeat_:

*** THIS IS NOT A DRILL *  
**

* * *

_**THIS IS AN ****EMERGENCY ****M****AYDAY ALERT FROM **_LEAD-OFFICER:COULSON#NNR-099J744**_ REQUESTING IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE__ AT _**0046HR / 11.09.2012

* * *

SUSPECTED **INSTALLATION BREACH / OFFENSIVE INTRUSION** L/S, AT **S.H.I.E.L.D. RESEARCH FACILITY, 55-C "_THE PARLIAMENT_".**

* * *

KNOWN CASUALTIES SUSTAINED, **12**.

SUSPECT(S) **CURRENTLY UNIDENTIFED / UNKNOWN**.

SUSPECT(S)** ARMED AND DANGEROUS.**

* * *

**WARNING:  
** FAILURE TO SECURE-IN-PLACE HIGH PRIORITY PERSONNEL & ARTICLES.

:_!_:  
:_code-warning-secure-failure_:

**/ FAILURE TO SECURE: _CODE-RED_ \**

* * *

**FULL EVACUATION REQUIRED**

_:!:_  
_:code-warning-evacuation-failure:_

**WARNING!**_**  
FULL EVACUATION CURRENTLY UNATTAINABLE AT THIS TIME. EVACUATION ASSISTANCE REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY.**_

* * *

COORDINATES ISSUE W/ INCIDENT SYSTEM LOG - ALL ATTENDING UNITS SIGN IN TO EMERGENCY CHANNEL:

_01-B-ALPHA-FIREKEEPER:WILDSPITZE_

FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

* * *

**\\\** EMERGENCY FORMATION REQUESTED FOR THE FOLLOWING DEPARTMENTS:

**\- ALL AVAILABLE UNITS.**

* * *

***SUSPECT(S) CURRENTLY UNKNOWN***

* * *

_ACTIVE ALERT:_  
ALL NON-COMBATANT S.H.I.E.L.D. AND NON-PERSONNEL. .REMAIN IN SAFETY. .ENGAGE w/ SUSPECTED PERSON(S) ONLY AS LAST RESORT AND ONLY WHEN LIFE IS ENDANGERED. .S.H.I.E.L.D. PERSONNEL ARE RESPONDING. .STANDBY FOR MORE INFOMATION.

* * *

[THIS IS AN EMERGENCY MESSAGE : THIS IS NOT A DRILL]

:_repeat_:

[THIS IS AN EMERGENCY MESSAGE : THIS IS NOT A DRILL]

:_code-/alert end_:

**\ * * * * * * /**


	2. Interlude: Sixth Battalion, Delta Squad

**| INTERLUDE |**

**SNOWHUNTER:**  
SIXTH BATTALION, DELTA SQUAD.

* * *

The phone is picked up the second it rings.

"_Snowhunter_." He answers, the end of his pencil hovering over a diagram partially explaining the dumber aspects interdimensional theory. The voice on the other end of the line is confused, so he tries again. "You've got hash key NNR-099J744, callsign Snowhunter. Sierra-November-Oscar-Whiskey-Hotel-Uniform-November-Tango-Echo-Romeo. _Snow_. _Hunter_."

Behind him, a cold blast of wind hits against the window. He can hear it but not feel it. The Wildspitze was treacherously dangerous at this time of year and he hasn't gone out to cover the grounds since Friday, the weather is that relentless. He'll have to draw in extra patrols to cover their bases once it clears. Whoever is on the other end of the phone apparently does not understand what it is he is saying.

He tries not to sound annoyed.

"Sixth Battalion, Delta Squad?" He prods. He circles the word _antigravity_.

Another stammer of confused meaningless words, and of course, he realises his error. They're not looking for _Snowhunter_. This isn't a phone call from his division. Intelligence, not Infantry.

He sets his pencil down and abandons his ill-fated attempt at understanding the nonsense that goes on downstairs, swivelling around in his chair to look outside. It's cold, dark and probably snowing. Nothing new there.

He sighs, and translates to suit-speak. "Leading Officer J. Coulson, speaking."

That gets him a more appropriate reaction. As the person on the other end of the line begins to explain the reason for them calling him at nearly 2200HRS on a Sunday, one of his officers steps into the doorway, looking agitated and confused. Phone calls from outside-Infantry were never usually good, not in their line of work.

And this one isn't. It really, _really_ isn't.

He doesn't have many frames of reference when it came to bearing bad news. For the longest moment, he's not entirely sure if he's actually feeling anything. He wonders if that is wrong of him.

"Oh, I see..." He trails off. "I-... Thank you, ma'am. I understand."

Another pause as he waits for the line to go dead. He watches a flat snowflake hit the glass, where it stays for a hurried heartbeat or two before slowly sliding down, until it's no longer frozen ice but a rivulet, running fast and free.

"Something up?" The other Commando asks, striking him out of his bewilderment and he blinks as he turns back around. Suddenly, his notes on multidimensional paraphysical phenomenon are a lot harder to discern. He sets the receiver down very carefully and sets both palms flat against his desk.

He knows that he's trying to keep his expression as carefully-neutral as possible, but Snowhunter is a S.H.I.E.L.D. Commando, not an intelligence agent, and ergo the only image training he'd been taught was a half-semester training program at Operations Academy. Basics, for the likes of them. Keeping a straight face. Breathing normally. He tries to. Joseph looks down at his hands, at the pencil in his hands. He tells himself not to squeeze down.

It's meeting his fellow commando's eyes that do it. He staccatos into laughter without warning, nervous and dreadful and he keeps on going until the other officer flinches in realisation and crosses the threshold in three wide steps. She shoves him aside until he is facing her and squeezes his shoulders so hard he is shocked into confused, reflexive tears.

Officer Hensley doesn't prod for an explanation straight away. She knows the importance of appearing calm in a job like theirs. How it's fundamentally more important for him to regain his composure then stand there explaining himself. That there was no place to lose competence to overemotional outbursts.

So, he gives himself ten seconds to register the news and then begins focusing on the most simple breathing exercises he knows. Three seconds in, three seconds out.

It takes twenty-four seconds after learning about the death of Phillip Coulson for Joseph to re-orientate his emotions. To _prioritize_.

Another ten, and he looks as close to calm as he could possibly be.

"My father is dead," He says, testing his voice. He finds it level. Dead, but level. "He was killed in action during the attack on the Helicarrier."

The other officer nods and squeezes down on both shoulders in wordless sympathy.

"Thank you, officer. That will be all."

Things are what you make of them. He breathes in again, then out. He sits back down, picks the pencil back up and opens up a dictionary to find the word _materialize_.

And slowly, just like that, all feeling subsides. His heart slows. The cold air numbs his damp skin. Cools his blood, his thoughts.

Things go back to normal.


	3. The Pyramid

**Author's note:**  
S.H.I.E.L.D. Commandos swear like unimaginative sailors. I am very sorry for the nonsense that comes out of my character's mouths. It's entirely their fault.

Aside from that, that's the only real warning for this first chapter, aside from creepy alien objects!

* * *

| **CHAPTER ONE** |  
THE PYRAMID

**_SOMEWHERE OVER MAURITANIA_ | 4.28.2013 [1422HRS]**

They have a mission.

Skye was familiar enough with the inter routines of the Bus to know, and observant enough to figure out without being told, that there was a mission on the table. As the telltale markers all hit in the right order, she observes her changing surroundings like watching the layup for the winning score (or, if her days in the Rising Tide had taught her anything; the play-by-play of an unconscious disaster) as the minuscule and normally-ignored all slot into place.

Like a jigsaw puzzle, but you're solving it upside down and while you know there is a picture on the other side, you don't know what it is yet.

Agent May, stiff-backed that morning and mouth firmly set in a deep sort of displeasure that Skye hadn't seen since the early days, disappears straight to the cockpit after her regular detour into AC's office. That was her first inkling that something had come up. Though at first, Skye had not put that down to anything unusual ― on this flying madhouse of a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, not everything strange is necessarily at that _strange_, after all ― but ten minutes later, she felt the shift in the plane; that nearly-indecipherable increase in 'gravity' that, Fitz had once explained, is result of something called centripetal force. It means May is making a coordinated turn.

All Skye really knows is, it means a change of course, which means something has come up.

Ward is Ward. Skye elects not to ask him outright because his entire body language screams _leave me alone_, and while Ward was usually dismissive and all-business before a mission, he was rarely one for complete self-isolation. Skye observes his hunched shoulders and scowling face, the way he drags his eyes over their collection of firearms as if making some deep, far-reaching decision and elects against an approach. Despite what others may think, she knows when to take a hint.

Coulson stays in his office instead of attending early-afternoon debrief and that is strange, but not entirely unheard of. Skye does not ascend the spiral staircase to ask because he is probably busy. Last time she had intruded, Coulson had made her help with his paperwork and suffice to say after _that _experience she was not keen on repeating the offence anytime soon.

Nor would she ever touch a SIR-1031-A document for as long as she lives. Her writing hand cramps at the mere thought.

Its FitzSimmons who sufficiently informs her of their mission. They don't intend to at first, of course, they're just very inexperienced and almost painfully obvious. But she loves them for it.

"So," Skye says, matter-of-fact as she walks into the lab, hands in pockets in order to initiate a posture one might use in a casual conversation. Then she thinks that maybe in the spy world that was as blatant as the hat, coat and hiding behind a newspaper combo and nearly grimaces. "Where we headed?"

"Headed?" Fitz repeats in the way of asking. Skye picks him out behind several large machines on the worktable.

"We changed course," she replies.

Their resident engineer tries not to look oblivious, but it doesn't work. It's written all over his face. "I... wasn't aware we were changing course."

"Really," Skye shoots back. "Huh. Then why are you looking up a bunch of mountains in Europe?"

She smiles and Fitz looks back over his shoulder at the viewscreen, his shoulders drooping in that _caught out again_ habit when he realises, sure enough, they've viewing a long stretch of mountain and white, flat, nothing in six directions and at great detail. Skye doesn't tell him that it's precisely this reaction that gives him away. For all she knew before, it could have been some really boring and utterly cliche spy-windows screensaver.

Simmons winces and looks up from the medical supplies she was hastily preparing. Skye knew less about those to make an accurate assessment of the situation.

"Technically it's not our mission, _yet_," Simmons says and glances at Fitz, who turns back to the bulky machines. Those, also, Skye did not recognise, but they had that recording equipment vibe about them. Maybe something like RADAR? But then where was the image part, the green lines with the scary approaching green dot line like you see in the movies? "Agent Coulson just told us to... keep an eye out for something."

"And that is..?" Skye slipped her hands out of her pockets. There was no need for _looking casual_ now.

"Gravitational radiation," Fitz answers and flicks a switch on one of the devices closest to them both. He doesn't exactly beckon Skye over, but his body language doesn't closer her off either, so she steps forward to look at it more closely. "This is an Interferometer, or... something like that, anyway. It was designed after the Wildspitze Disaster to detect specific gravitational disruptions caused by a foreign object on the Index. The _Pyramid_."

That was a lot of words with a lot of meanings.

"Oookay," Skye says, slowly. She didn't need to know the science, necessarily. Maybe. Hopefully not. She doesn't say 'in English please', because it's cliche and honestly a little uninspired. "I know about the Index, but what is the Pyramid?"

"It's this... object, that appeared in some place called the Ötztal Alps over a year ago," Fitz explains. "We don't know a lot about it, other than that when tampered with, it disrupts the gravitational field up to what we thought was a hundred or so metre radius. A bunch of S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists thought it was a form of a communication device, but nothing came of that theory. They built this mega-structure around it instead. The Parliament." He snorts. "Bloody thing looks like something the Illuminati made up. All of the folks back at the Academy were _dying_ to get their hands on it... but then, the, uh. Well, the Wildspitze Disaster happened and put a stop to that right quick."

Skye shrugs. "And that was... What? Did something go wrong?"

Fitz snaps his head up with such speed that Skye is seriously surprised that his skull remains attached to his neck.

"You don't know about the Wildspitze Disaster?" He exclaims but then flicks his eyes to the glass separating them from the rest the Bus and adds, in a hushed whisper. "How can you not _know_ about the _Wildspitze Disaster?_"

"Of course she doesn't know about the Wildspitze Disaster, dum-dum," Simmons interjects before Skye can remind them that she has barely been around S.H.I.E.L.D. enough to know about every crazy _Disaster_ under the sun. Just the crazy big ones. "The whole thing was rated Level 6 and above... But I guess that doesn't matter, now. Not since we've been put on the case..." She glances at her friend. "Also... It's like the _one_ thing you don't mention to Coulson."

Fitz concedes with a shrug. "True, I guess. That is very true."

"And why do we not mention the, uh, Wildspitze Disaster to Coulson?" Skye looks between them both. She had the distinct feeling that she'd been forgotten about. Again. "Was AC there? At the Wildspitze?"

She wasn't entirely sure if it was '_the Wildspitze_' or '_the Disaster_' and by this point, she was almost too afraid to ask.

"Oh no!" Simmons looks back at her, and almost looked shocked. "Agent Coulson wasn't there... And I'm glad because barely anyone got out alive... but..."

"But what?" Skye felt like she was asking a lot of questions. She wondered if she could just get a document on it. Or maybe hack into S.H.I.E.L.D's supposedly oh-so-secure files and grab some documents on it. It is probably easier than this back-and-forth. Probably had a lot less weird science voodo jargon in there, too.

Another shared look between FitzSimmons, but judging by the deepness of their gaze, it was something else. Something important. Something she wasn't getting.

Sure enough, Simmons' look of shock turns into something sad and pained looking.

"You really don't know?" She asks and looks at Skye with such misery that for a moment, the newest member of the team actually felt really bad for asking.

"Not if it's Level 6 or whatever, no. Rising Tide didn't actually know everything about you guys and what we did know was domestic."

She hadn't heard about this so-called Wildspitze Disaster through her regular channels either but, given how most of the world didn't know S.H.I.E.L.D. even existed a year ago, she figures that makes sense.

It makes her wonder about what else they're hiding.

Simmons looks back at Fitz, who drags his finger across the screen of his tablet in a seemingly random assortment of angles and lines and shrugs, again. "I mean... If she doesn't know... And we're really going after what we think is the Pyramid..."

Fitz sighs and leans back against the cabinets.

"_So... five months ago_..."

* * *

**_S.H.I.E.L.D. RESEARCH FACILITY, 55-C "THE PARLIAMENT"_ | 11.09.2012 [0055HRS]  
**FIVE MONTHS, TWO WEEKS, FIVE DAYS AGO

"If we can't get clear, I can't rapid deploy the article to Providence," S.H.I.E.L.D. Commando R. Hensley, codename _Combo_ informs her direct superior, Leading Officer Coulson J., callsign: _Snowhunter_. "What are my orders?"

Snowhunter is a protective liaison specialist. It is not usually his job to deploy for active combat engagements but like any S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel with a firearms rating above that of .500, he is trained to perform that role in the event of an emergency, which given the urgency of their situation and the intense, on-theme lighting, this very much was. The attack came less than an hour ago from the eastern end of the compound ― three of his eight squad members were defending the surviving personnel.

It left S.H.I.E.L.D. Commandos Snowhunter and Combo to defend the single most important thing in the entire base, aside from its human inhabitants.

Behind three launch doors, down one long hallway and beyond a specialized plastic-glass compound designed to reflect gravitationally disruptions, the Pyramid sat waiting half-prepared for extraction. He could feel it from here. It made the backs of his molars ache.

Normally he would not be this anxious to move in on the counter offence, but Snowhunter is also classified as a Junior Squadron Instructor. His entire unit consists of nineteen-year-old freshers from the Institute of Infantry Academics, and while they are trained combatants they are not experienced enough to attack an enemy that numbers more than their own.

Not when said enemy combatants have successfully pinned them down between the Pyramid's chamber and the rest of the base. Not when advancing back into the fray and leaving the other S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, who are primarily non-combatants, unguarded.

A thunderous racket of gunfire explodes overhead and the two Commandos duck down further against the concrete planter they were using for cover. They had the high-ground, for now, but Snowhunter was not sure how long that would last.

He could not keep them suppressed forever. Between them, both Snowhunter and Combo had six rounds of ammunition left and a full roll for the mounted machinegun, but whoever was attacking them had been engaged long enough to figure out the lay of the land by now. For every bullet the two S.H.I.E.L.D. officers had, their adversaries had time to wait and strong cover to do so safely. There was only so much he could put into keeping them down before he ran out of options.

The pair of them lean out of cover to return fire ― Snowhunter over the top and Combo leaning out from the side between the railing and the stairs.

He catches one, hits another square in the chest. Combo gets at least three, but she was always the better shot. Combo had a .750 rating and was classified as Hyper-Lethal; Combo was the scary kind of S.H.I.E.L.D. Special.

"They can't get to the Pyramid," Snowhunter drops back into cover and flinches away from a stray bullet that bounces off of a nearby steel support beam. He sprays a burst of gunfire blindly over their cover in the way of reply. "But I'm not risking the lives of my remaining troopers. _I can't_."

Combo looks back at him over her armoured pauldron and frowns, but a warning flashers over her HUD and she must pop over cover to blast one of their attackers when they try to advance up the stairs.

Once she's back settled to wait out the returning fire, his second-in-command regards him with a scowl.

"It's not _clear_." She stresses again. "Unless we hold them off until reinforcements arrive there is no way we can get that thing up and transport it back with just the two of us. One wrong move and that god-forsaken pointy mother-Illuminati-fucker will have us fighting on the ceiling like some shitty parody of _Ender's Game_."

He knew that. Snowhunter has been active S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel for four, nearly five years. He's seen more engagements than he can count and it was only really luck and good planning that ensured that he lived through them all.

He's dealt with all manner of bizarre shittery in his time. S.H.I.E.L.D. was one hell of a crazy train. The Pyramid was just one.

But someday his luck had to run out, and this whole situation sure as hell wasn't well planned. Snowhunter had been left to man an entire research base with nothing but a skeleton crew of _children_ under the assumption that the Parliament was too much of a secret to merit concern. Now fucking look at them. Four troopers dead. He doesn't know how many non-combatants. Surrounded on three sides by enemies they don't know.

Some _secret_.

"I'm going back," Snowhunter replies in a half-shout. "There's no way reinforcements are gonna make it here for at least another hour, possibly more. They'll be crawling on us by then. I need you to get them kids and the noncobs out of here."

"Fuck that!" Combo shouted back. "You don't leave a S.H.I.E.L.D. Trooper behind!"

Something heavy with a deep, solid impact hits their cover straight on. It doesn't buckle or break entirely, but the force pushes them both off of the concrete planter. Snowhunter falls sprawled on all fours, somewhat aware of the fact that his armour was trying it's best to hold against the shockwaves and the fact that his headset was crushing his head in an attempt to keep his ears protected.

As his HUD flashes with warnings, he locates Combo in the smoke, dust and red lighting and scrambles over to her on his armoured elbows and knees.

"Look, that's an order," He grabs both of her shoulders, hunched over. "You copy? If they get their hands on the Pyramid we're beyond fucked. You're not retreating. You're engaging in a tactical fall-back and mounting a counter-attack with reinforcements. If I initiate a shutdown and all countermeasures come into place there's no way they're getting to that pointy bastard in there without a directorial override, but once they figure that out, all they're gonna do is come back and slaughter the rest of you in reprisal if you're still around."

Two adversaries pop up on either side of them. Combo flicks her hand up and shoots without tearing her eyes away from Snowhunter's face. He has to glance away to aim, but he doesn't miss. He's not entirely used to letting the HUD do all the work.

Combo thumps him on the shoulder, hard. "If I get back and you're dead, so help me, Coulson, I'ma drag you back and beat your ass so hard you'll be _begging_ the devil save you."

"I'm counting on it." Snowhunter says, and he means it. What were friends for, if they didn't invade Hell on your behalf? "Pop a smoke near the railing, drop and make a run for it. I'll get on the big gun. Can't break cover with that, it'll buy you enough time to get some distance."

Assuming the whole base wasn't crawling. They'd drawn a lot of the enemy forces here by being distracting, dangerous and as generally as much of a pain in the ass as possible but the likelihood of other, unknown enemies remained.

Snowhunter breathed in and screwed his eyes shut for a moment. Three seconds. He breathed out.

_Concentrate on what you know._

"Fine." Combo snarled, fired over the cover until her magazine ran out, reloaded and then finally grabbed the smoke grenade on her belt. "Try not to hit me, you useless bastard."

"It was _one_ time!"

"One time is one time too many!"

Snowhunter tried not to roll his eyes and grabbed the machinegun, half squatting so his head remained happily attached to his shoulders and levelling the barrel towards the general vicinity to the bulk of the enemy forces below. "You ready?"

Combo held his gaze, fingers hesitating over the release mechanism on the smoke grenade.

"I'm coming back." She declared, a promise. "You hear me? I'm coming back for you. Don't do anything stupid, Hunter - or I'm breaking your arms."

There were no words he felt appropriate for a response, so he nods instead and without another word between them, squeezed down on the two triggers and unleashed the raw fury of six-hundred bullets a minute upon the adversaries below. The smoke pops, a bright S.H.I.E.L.D. blue against a heavy backdrop of warning red.

When Snowhunter finally manages to look back, Combo is gone. Rather than risk any of them following her, he twists the gun so it was firing on the doorway she ran through, jams it into position so it will fire until dry, and grabs his rifle. Then he grabs the rectangular ballistics shield leaning against the opposite door.

"Fucking come on!" He screams, tucking himself behind the shield and backing up rifle levelled, though he knows objectively that there is very little chance that they'll hear him over the gunfire. "You want the Pyramid so bad? I'll jam it up your ass!"

It's a thirty second run to the containment room. Forty-three when weighed down with full equipment. He doesn't know how much longer it will be running backwards, but Snowhunter doesn't waste a second.

* * *

Skye stands in the threshold to Agent May's cockpit and asks, voice weak. "Agent Coulson has a son?"

May doesn't visibly react, but she must have been taken off guard because she doesn't move _at all_. She stares out of the windshield and keeps both hands on the controls, shoulders tense.

"FitzSimmons?" She questions, eventually. Skye shrugs, even though May can't see the gesture, and sits down in one of the co-pilot seats further back.

"I... pushed. I didn't know."

"There's a lot of things you don't know." May agrees. "But I guess, if you are getting involved in this mission, then you need to know the details."

* * *

They catch up with him in the last leg. Gunshots ping off metal furnishings and bounce off concrete. Snowhunter stops before the first set of armoured blast doors, flicks the stabilizer out from the bottom of his shield so it remained upright, and slapped his free hand against the palm-reader against the wall. It read his fingertips and flashed blue.

He only had two magazines on his vest. The rest were back at the cover he and Corvo had held earlier. Two twenty-mag capacity magazines on top of the - he looks down at the little holotag - eight in his rifle for the thirty or so enemy targets advancing two at a time, assuming they all stayed on him and prioritized the Pyramid over persuing Combo and the other survivors? That was long odds. He wouldn't be able to hold them off for long.

Snowhunter fires off three of his remaining eight rounds and decides to stall for time by not pulling back as the doors start closing immediately. If he starts retreating in and they follow, if they damage the reader or any of the other security systems in place, the whole system will lockdown prematurely and he won't get anywhere near the Pyramid, he'll be stuck and cornered and dead.

Blast doors were not as secure as the actual containment room. He figures, given time, they could open the former ― but the latter, never. They could watch him through the glass and make rude gestures at the very worst.

But if they damage the security systems themselves, it'll put the whole building into Emergency System Shutdown and then they'll all be in some serious shit.

Four rounds hammer into the front of his ballistic shield. Snowhunter sticks his rifle out again and squeezes down on the trigger, letting off all of the remaining rounds. Reloading takes exactly five seconds when retrieving it from his vest.

Instead of going straight for the mag, though, he elects to eject the empty one and then proceed to lift up his shield. The doors are nearly halfway down and he needed to be quick. With the alarm is ring-screaming in his ears and on top of the screech of metal against metal and the bark of gunfire, it is perhaps the worst combination of noises he's experienced since stress testing back at the Academy. His headset is advanced enough to protect his hearing, but the sound still goes through him, making his insides squirm with instinctual unease as he presses back.

Once he's past the first door and under the second, he flips his shield around and throws it, sending it skidding, spinning across the floor and all the way back to the containment area. He inserts the first of the two mags, kneels down and flicks his rifle into automatic mode. Fourteen bullets rapid-fire into the corridor and he must catch at least one of them, because someone shouts and drops.

His is vest takes a bullet just as the first two men in front of him collapse, but Snowhunter moves with the impact, falling onto his back so his head isn't touching the bottom of the descending last door as he thrusts the soles of his boots against the floor to push himself under.

Just before it shuts for good, he rolls onto his stomach and empties the remainder of the magazine at the feet of his rapidly approaching assailants. Mostly out of spite. The seconds before the doors close felt agonizingly long. When they finally lock into place with a deep, guttural clank that echoes within the concrete foundation, Snowhunter pauses to quickly check his six and then hefts himself onto his knees with a groan and a heavy exhale.

Then he just kneels there. For at least thirty seconds, Snowhutner just kneels and breathes.

Whatever hit him didn't cut through the kevlar at least. Once he's caught his breath, looking the third interior door up and down wearily as he reloads the last of his ammunition, he checks for injuries. Then he checks his watch.

The mayday alert activated barely forty-five minutes ago.

He feels like he's been fighting for forty-five hours. His eyes were straining, his skull hurt. The nearest S.H.I.E.L.D. base was his old battalion headquarters in Liechtenstein. Even if they deployed instantly, that is three hours away. Snowhunter leaned back to sit on the floor.

Now that he's here, able to think more abstractly and less focused on immediate survival, he is not entirely certain that three hours is enough time. This enemy is not unprepared, nor does he think them untalented enough to get through three blast doors. They were there, really, to keep the Pyramid _in_ and not to keep anyone with resources _out_. They had their lockdown systems, of course, but that was standard S.H.I.E.L.D. paranoia.

The more he thinks about it, the more desperate he realises the situation is. They took a S.H.I.E.L.D. black site by surprise and all but slaughtered them; they aren't common mercenaries or criminals or terrorists or insurgents or, whatever the least common denominator of 'bad guy' is.

And Snowhunter is a decent soldier, but he's also just one man. And he's exhausted. Guarding the Parliament has left him out of shape and practice.

He looks at the palm reader on his side of the door. Emergency system shutdown for compromised security is incredibly difficult to counter, he knows. It takes their technicians days to rectify and reset. It's not just a lockdown. On the other side of these doors, that is a nightmare scenario, but _now_...

Snowhunter heaves himself onto his feet. If he does what he is thinking of doing, he'll be trapped in a sterile isolation containment room for at least two days. He doesn't have water.

He knows that his comms. wont get through the concrete, not this far down, but he checks his wristpad anyway out of last-minute desperation. There's no connection. It's as silent as the grave and the only thing he can hear at all is the sound of his breathing and the blood rushing in his head, the_ thud thud thud_ of his panicking heart.

"_Shit_."

He pulls his helmet off, relishes in the freedom as his skin prickles at the prospect of fresh cold air. The headset comes off soon thereafter and Snowhunter tosses it aside, rubbing at the agitated skin around his ears and then at his mouth and jaw. Three hours at the least. From practice, he recalls that the average battalion can be deployed and en-route in twenty minutes. Liechtenstein took around forty last time he was there. He assumes that the people who attacked them would be unable to penetrate the containment zone if sealed, but what if he was wrong?

What if S.H.I.E.L.D. was wrong? They were wrong about this place being a good enough secret that nobody would ever find it. They'd told him, time and time again; _security was not at risk of being compromised at this time._

Request for reinforcements _denied_, Agent Coulson.

Funny. If he'd been the _other one_, maybe he'd have more than a squadron of children. Maybe they wouldn't have been wrong.

And they were wrong. Wrong about this, wrong about the Pyramid.

Spinning, he breathes out his indecision and traces the details of the corridor. The containment chamber was a little further down, surrounded by a shell of equipment and data readers. Small handholds dotted the walls, doors and floor. There were grates for airflow between them but he knew from security surveys that the ducts were too tight for a small animal to get through, nevermind a heavily armoured human male.

Snowhunter stood up and started walking. He kept on going until his toes reached the yellow-black hazard tape and the very edge of the containment seal. He stared at it for a moment, then looked up at the source of all of his direct problems.

The Pyramid took the form of a dark marble-ish looking, well, _pyramid_, about knee height. Technicians had managed to lift it into a smaller containment case that was, supposedly, capable of preventing it from pulling it's favoured manipulating gravity trick, but the lid remained cast aside. The Pyramid itself remained unsealed and it vibrated with its usual immense displeasure. Snowhunter did not know how a stupid glorified shape could look so pissed off.

But it _was_, most of the time. He'd seen what this thing was capable of. He did not fancy getting suspended mid-air or smashed into the ceiling.

He sighs, gives it a long, pointed look and shakes his head.

"Guess we're roommates," he tells it and begins stepping back until he is within the threshold of the containment zone and within the realms what he generally considers to be it's 'personal space'.

"Please don't get mad. Don't spawn a black hole to suck out my insides. I'm not that bad, despite what you've probably heard, really."

Much to his surprise and immense comfort, it doesn't do that, but Snowhunter still glances over his shoulder and waits five seconds anyway.

No black hole. Gravity felt... fine.

Maybe they could be friends after all. He turned back to the doors.

Four hours. Maybe more. Twenty bullets. One Pyramid. One Soldier. Two funerals in the last two years. Combo. Hensley. One S.H.I.E.L.D. oath and twelve years of prolonged desperation to prove and to repent. He takes the two options he has and weighs them beside each other, one in each hand runs his mind's touch over their rough edges. On one hand, he made a promise. On the other, he had a job to do. Two jobs, he supposes ― but he got at least three of his troopers, four including Combo, out alive. His last responsibility stood twenty feet away.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Troopers weren't supposed to leave anyone behind. They'll be coming for him, eventually, especially if Combo gets her way.

But what if they're too late?

They've underestimated the enemy. It would be inexcusable for him to do it again. He thinks about Roberto and Harrison and Geier and Duko, bodies on the floor and bodies against the wall. He recalls the downturned frowns and long sighs of his childhood. He thinks about dying alone in this desolate place. Two funerals in two years. Six if you count his soldiers.

Yeah, no. Joseph looked up, grim-faced and battle fatigued.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

"So, an entire lockdown on the base and then there's nothing." Skye summarizes. "Completely _nothing_."

"That was when we lost everything. Audio, video, the article..." May reaches up to flick something off and gives their newest rookie a glance. "The specialist. There was nothing left there. It was empty. A tomb."

* * *

Snowhunter levelled his rifle in the crook of his elbow and blasted the palm reader dead in the centre, damaging it beyond repair in one single shot.

Emergency system shutdown took less than ten seconds ― before he could even lower his rifle, the highly specialized containment shield snapped shut, enclosing him and the Pyramid in a fifty-by-fifty foot circle. He heard the change in atmospheric pressure. So there was and would continue to be air, at least, which was good.

To go out suffocating was not one of his prefered ways to die, to say the least.

For a moment all he can do is just stand there, drinking in the silence and the stillness. Of course, it's not complete _silence_. For isn't there not always the sound of one's own heart? Just as with whiteness there is light, and blackness is a canvass for dreams; if there is a soul present, there is always something. It was an eerie sort of tranquillity. Not comfortable, but then not much in his life was _comfortable_ anymore, between these pale, empty concrete walls and his stiff armoured uniform.

Snowhunter was is to just lie down and make the most of the quiet, but before he could, something changed. Without warning, he has quite possibly the _worst_ idea he'd ever spawned since crazy-glueing a Michael Scott sticker to Fury's eyepatch back when he was ten.

He _really_ wanted to touch the Pyramid.

It made absolutely no sense at all. He'd been near the Pyramid before and never had so much as a thought about touching it, even in passing. It was one of those things, like the inside of a dog's mouth or a live wire, that just seemed something you _didn't_ touch.

Everything also happened so suddenly that it took him by surprise. He'd heard about intrusive thoughts before; a lot of S.H.I.E.L.D. training took the form of baseline cognitive awareness, usually, lest they suffer a concussion or become exposed to compounds that affect their behaviour, but he'd learned about it. But he was also fairly sure that this is not it. Such unwelcome involuntary thoughts generally had aggressive, sexual, or blasphemous themes. _I wanna touch the pointy asshole_ is not one of them.

It's not just a whim, either. Snowhunter has done some stupid stuff in his life but he doesn't _want_ to do this. It's not like his regular brand of 'I don't want to do this but I have no choice', either. He had no reason to touch it. It's not something he had to psyche himself up for. No real reason.

Yet he also does, simultaneously, at the same time _really_ want to. Every single fibre of his being said _no_ but there's something impossibly determined and seemingly limitless within that is going ahead with it anyway. It's not normal. It's not him.

Which brings him to his next assumption. The fucking thing is fucking with him.

"Oi!" He snaps, with a stupid bout of random bravery he did not exactly feel. "_Stop that_."

It doesn't reply, obviously. Going against all judgement, Snowhunter narrowed his eyes and started stepping closer. It went against every protocol in the book, he knew. He shouldn't do it.

Snowhunter blinks and tries to step back, but whatever part of him making him do this refuses the direct order of his own cerebellum and took three steps toward it instead.

Sheer force of will wasn't working. Snowhunter fought off the panic and tried to think.

He's trained to fight off drugs, truth ones specifically; two nights in some S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse in some jungle in South America Somewhere to play torture make-believe, cross the boxes that say_ this man is not a liability_. Snowhunter tired every single self-control exercise he could think of, from hand-gripping to holding his breath in the hope of passing out from lack of oxygen, to dissociation to self-esteem games, but no. Nothing worked

Nothing at all. He scowled and looked down at his hands as they set his rifle to one side seemingly on their own violation. They do it properly, too. Rifle around head, not head around rifle; strap tucked away from the mechanisms, safety on.

It's then he decides, fuck it. If it wants him, he's going to make it work for it.

Snowhunter forced as much self-will as he possibly can and wrenched his handgun out of his thigh holster with the intention of stopping himself via self-inflicted gunshot wound. If he got himself in the leg, chances are it would hurt but not be life-threatening, his thigh and shin armour and the nano-carbon fibre ballistic webbing sewn into his fatigues being what it was. The pain might snap him out of it.

But before he can even aim at his leg, he's lifting his handgun up instead and emptying the magazine out. He watches in morbid curiosity and mind floundering panic as his fingers deftly pull back the slide and push the mag out, before letting both drop unceremoniously to the floor.

Then, utterly defenceless, Snowhunter keeps on walking.

_Great_, _It's going to suck out my soul and feast on it. _He grimaces he got close enough to see his reflection in the glossy black surface. _Nobody has sacrificed an offering of squishy human meat for a while and now the evil creepy triangle is hungry._

* * *

"But the triangle-"

"The _Pyramid_." May corrects.

"Right. The Pyramid. It's back, right? At least that's what they think with the, uh... gravity-thing. So Agent Coulson's kid might be alive?" Skye questions. She watches the scattering of clouds and tries to find the horizon in a sea of endless blue, she tries not to think about Coulson. Someone-Like-Coulson. Someone with Coulson's eyes or Coulson's smile, but younger.

Coulson, in Skye's mind, wasn't young. AC was fifty-something-ish and reliable as a consequence.

"He's not Agent Coulson's _kid_," May warns. "He... was, a Level 5 Operative and should be referred to as _Leading Officer_." But Agent May relents quickly and glances back at the younger agent. She sighs. For the first time in a while, Skye notices, this is what May looks like when she is stressed, and not hiding it. "I don't think that Joseph is alive, Skye. I really don't. Five months is a long time... But Coulson hung on to that hope just enough to keep on as normal and very few of us had the heart to argue with him otherwise."

Skye shifts so she is sitting more comfortably in the seat. "Is there a chance, at least?"

May shrugs. "I guess we'll have to find out."

* * *

The moment his fingers make content with its surface, Snowhunter screws his eyes shut and winces, turning his head away.

But there's nothing. It's cold. Smooth. It doesn't burn off his arm to the elbow, it doesn't drag him in and chomp down. Blast him off and away and paste him into the containment shield. It just feels. _There_. Pressed against the flesh of his fingers. Solid and slightly vibrating.

He opens one eye and squints at it.

And because Joseph Coulson has no luck, no sodding luck at all, the very moment he thinks he might be okay, that everything might just go normally from there, it happens.

The Pyramid explodes and they both vanish.

[ 🛆 ]

**Author's Note:**

What is this, exactly? Well if you want the whole truth, it's the result of a particularly intense fever dream. The original content was a lot less... organized than this, but I'm a sucker for family drama. So hello, everyone. Meet Joseph.


	4. The Assembly

**Author's Note: **Warnings for some emotional content and brief mentions of blood. Everything else is pretty sub-standard, I'd say!

* * *

_"Was he married?"_

_"No. There was a, uh... cellist, I think. Kid, too. Well. Not so much of a kid anymore."_

_"I'm sorry. He seemed like a good man."_

_"He was an idiot."_

[ 🛆 ]

| **CHAPTER TWO **|  
THE ASSEMBLY

**_S.H.I.E.L.D. RESEARCH FACILITY, 55-C "THE PARLIAMENT"_ |**** 4.26.2013**** [****2225****HRS]**

Since most of the Parliament was beneath the mountainside and its above-ground hanger too small to fit a tactical airlifter, the team had to rappel out the plane while Agent May remained on board to pilot the Bus, circling at a distance.

It wasn't Agent Coulson's first choice, but it was the only viable one outside of landing at Camp Triesenberg in Liechtenstein, outsourcing a S.H.I.E.L.D. helicopter and landing with a full team ― and that had indeed been his plan, but then turns out handling an unstable Class-D Index artefact aboard an unspecialized rotary aircraft a such a high altitude was not recommended, both by science and by common sense.

That, and Camp Triesenberg was deactivated, for Infantry Battalion VI had flown out to Isparta nearly three months ago. It meant that Coulson and his team were the only S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel operating above Level 6 in this area of Europe.

And that meant dropping from the Bus harder than he had wanted to, without the whole team as he had intended to.

"Remember the rules," Coulson shouts over the wind as the Bus awkwardly hovers over a rugged section of steep rock using VTOL. This was another decision they had to change ― Ward might have been able to land safely in powder snow, but the last thing he needed was anyone falling. Better it be steep rock with fair grip than unstable terrain at a lower angle. "No breaking off the group, hunker down and wait for the perimeter check. We go in quick and we go in quiet. Any questions?"

"Yeah," Skye throws her hand up, knees bent at angles so that she can dangle somewhat from the rappel line attached to the top of the hanger ceiling. She and FitzSimmons had been 'rehearsing' since they changed plans, dropping in from the hanger ceiling to the floor to perfect technique, or get as close to comfortable with the technique as they could get. "Should I really be doing this without any real practice?"

Skye had never rappeled from anything before, let alone from a plane. Neither had FitzSimmons for that matter. Coulson had done so three times in his entire career and one of them was during his field exam. He smiled. "Sometimes you've just got to go in feet first."

"I recommend the feet first especially," Ward adds plainly as he checks and re-checks everyone's gear. "Wouldn't want to drop in on your head."

"You'll be fine. You've had _some_ practice at least." Coulson soothed, feeling unsure himself, both with this and everything else. The creeping unease and distant pain that had come with this particular mission had somewhat faded with the impending action. He was glad for the momentary clear thinking, however long it would last. "Ward will drop first, then Fitz, Simmons and then Skye. I'll go last. Everyone ready?"

Everyone either nodded, Yes Sir'ed or (if you were Fitz) made a high pitched screaming noise between clenched teeth, which Coulson took for an affirmative.

The rest is fairly sub-standard. A radio check to May, all equipment checked for a third time and they lined up and got ready to drop.

The layout of the hanger meant that they could all technically drop simultaneously, but they waited for Ward to get a solid landing, remove his lines and fit a hook into the mountainside to tether themselves before sending down the others. Agent Ward was familiar with all of it, armed with a close-quarters MP7 and enough tactical gear to make him appear solider-like ― though he'd have nothing on a S.H.I.E.L.D. Trooper in full kit ― and he descended easily, only hesitating to check the ground and get a good footing. Coulson needn't worry at all about Ward at all.

_Fitz_, though.

Fitz is carrying a set of slimline Not-Interferometers, his DWARF case and a number of other boxes Coulson has no understanding of but assumes is important. Being weighed down by equipment means he Fitz was unable to carry a firearm, but as he technically wasn't weapons rated, Phil was is less concerned about that and more about the idea of Fitz overbalancing on the side of a steep mountain and falling several thousand feet to his death.

Sure enough, there was a moment when the engineer's leg shot out as it landed on a spread of unseen ice and Coulson's heart jumped into his throat at the sight of it, but Ward snapped both arms out in an instant, hauling Fitz upright and getting him tethered. No sooner than Phil had managed to take in a concerned breath, Ward had sent the engineer climbing with a slap on the back and near-screamed '_be careful!_'.

Crisis everted, Simmons was the next up. She had less of an issue. The only baggage she had was a backpack with medical supplies complete with a small forensics kit and was therefore notably less heavy than her counterpart, though armed with a Model 910 as a precaution. She descended wearily but with no real problems, slower than what was standard but good enough for a first-timer. Ward got her released and tethered to the mountainside, and she easily caught up to Fitz and helped him up to the flat area of terrain near the fence.

Skye's drop was faster and more reckless, which did not surprise Coulson at all. He decided to drop down only two seconds behind her and he hit the floor just after she did, though he released himself from the rappel equipment and onto the mountain both faster and more effectively.

"That wasn't so bad!" Skye shouts over the roar of engines and wind, clapping her gloved hands together.

Once they were all free, Coulson squints up at the open hanger door. Far above, he sees the shape of May as she retracts the rappel lines. For a second their eyes meet and as Coulson gives two thumbs up to signify an _All Good_ on their end. He swears he might've seen her smile.

But the air was a dizzying display of bright blue and twirling snowflakes amidst the wind and Coulson's eyes weren't what they used to be. He exhales, takes one long look at the picturesque mountainside before turning around to make the incline toward the Parliament.

Skye watches as the Bus ascends, having stopped seemingly to wait for Phil. It's a gesture he appreciates. "Not like she's anything but a radio call away, right?"

"We're not expecting much trouble," Coulson replies, though he nods. "But it's nice to have that reassurance, yes."

By the time they had made the short climb to the outermost perimeter fence ― a short, chest height chainlink half-rusted thing that warned hikers and other civilians to stay away from the restricted area ― Ward had already done a quick once over. He yakes the binoculars away from his face as they approach.

"Looks abandoned and quiet, sir." The specialist declares. "The inner perimeter shows some wear and tear, but I gather that's from the original incident and not anything new."

"And the hanger?" Coulson asks.

Ward shrugs, unconcerned. "Can't entirely tell from this angle, but the doors are closed and there's at least ten foot of snow up against it from the wind ― if anything got near it, we'd notice. Saw a couple of soda cans but I assume those are from the tourists."

"Looks like S.H.I.E.L.D. abandoned the place for good," Simmons adds, eyes looking over the beak concrete structures, unassuming against the brown rocks and patches of white crisp snow. "I can't imagine anyone would let a civilian come this close if it was operating."

Official reports stated that the Parliament had been evacuated after a full recovery operation, but something about the stillness, the prolonged abandoned atmosphere, had Coulson feeling weird about the whole thing. Simmons was right, of course; according to the government of Austria it _was_ abandoned, but the feeling remained.

"Well, no sense in standing here freezing to death," he says, eventually. "Let's move out."

Originally, the innermost fence ― a much more secure, twenty-feet obstacle with barbed-wire loops and steel bars thicker than Coulson's neck ― would be protected by a slightly shorter electrified one, but the latter no longer worked. It meant that the card readers situated against the exit doors also did not work, and that if they wanted in, they'd have to break open the physical locks. The whole process would normally set off numerous alarms, but the report and Fitz's own investigations appeared correct in that there was no power to those systems either, externally or otherwise. The place was dead.

"Nothing a little ingenious engineering can't handle," Fitz himself adds to his prior observations. He slaps one of the 'pick-lock' devices against the external door and stepped back. With a small poof of smoke and a faint flash, most of the internal locking mechanisms exploded and fell apart.

"Ta-da," Skye mutters. "Open Sesame."

Coulson gave her an amused glance as Ward struggles to heave the door open against several inches of collected snow. The smaller, weaker gate that accompanied the electric fence was easily felled with wire clippers, leaving their last obstacle: a set of heavier, security doors that led into the main building.

Ward gives it a thump with his gloved fist and smirks at Fitz. "Guess you're not gonna blast through this."

"Probably not," Fitz agrees as he shrugs off his backpack. "But I was expecting something like this. The report mentioned the recovery team coming through this way. It shouldn't be hard-locked by the system shutdown."

"And if it is?" Simmons asks, unconvinced.

Fitz bites his lip as he starts piloting one of the D.W.A.R.F.s. "I mean, I guess we could use like... I dunno, five or seven or ten of those things? I guess that might be able to punch through it eventually. Either that or Ward can get on his knees and picklock it, but we don't have that kind of time."

Ward does not look too amused at that statement.

"But I don't think that will be necessary," Fitz continues. "I modified Grumpy to emit a small electric charge, enough to power a small device or two. I might expand the concept toward minuscule power supplies, I imagine that it cou-"

"Very helpful, Fitz." Coulson interruptes, voice raised ever so slightly. "But let's concentrate on the now, shall we? It's freezing out here and we're loosing light."

Fitz looks back over his shoulder and blushes red, though Coulson elects to decide that it was just the cold, and absolutely nothing else.

"Right," The engineer nods and returns his attention back to his D.W.A.R.F. and the card reader. "Should just be a matter of pressing this here little wee button and-" There is a shock of electricity that made the hair on Coulson's neck prickle, then a bright, hot flash. Then nothing. For a split moment, there overhead lighting above the door flashed on and then off again. Fitz tuts. "Guess it's not permanent, though that does make sense. I'll have to apply a constant charge, er - Sir, your badge?"

Fitz turns around with an open palm, and Coulson fishes into his jacket pocket until he produced the leather case that held his badge and identification card. The engineer slips the card itself out, and then presses it against the reader as he commanded the D.W.A.R.F. to emit another charge.

Sure enough, it flashes blue and unlocked itself. Fitz slips the card back inside its protective slot and handed it back to Coulson.

"As Skye said," he smiles. "_Open Sesame_."

Phil smiles back, though less animatedly. "Guess I should ask upstairs to increase the budget ever so slightly for R&D purposes."

"All in a day's work, sir," Fitz notes, but he's pleased. "Let's just hope I can get the power on so we don't have to do that for every door we come across."

* * *

**_SOMEWHERE UNKNOWN_ | ?-?-? [?HRS]**

This is how Snowhunter comes back into consciousness: painfully, and with absolutely no grace to speak of.

Joseph Coulson has always been irredeemably terrible at impulse control. He managed to do the basics after years of training and instruction, managed to curb his answering back and check his red-hot flashes of temper, but he'd never really mastered the instinctual whims of his own body and mind. So, the second Snowhunter is jerked back into consciousness, he does the first thing his body tells him to do.

And that is throw up this morning's breakfast.

Waking up is as sudden and violent as getting hit by a train. From a cool sense of almost-nothingness to immediate pain and sheer liveliness, a mind that screams for air, which forces the lungs to contract and inflate with a painful effort, to which the heart squeezes with what felt like a death grip; his body is a machine jump-started into action and when it startles into life after what feels like mere milliseconds-

Joseph vomits. Muscles contracting, he manages to pull the mask covering his mouth away and convulses and fights the instinct until it is impossible to hold it back, struggling against stiff muscles to regurgitate the mess left stagnant in the pit of his gut. Lay on his stomach and chest he jerks, limbs fighting against the hard solid surface of what he assumes is the floor to push himself sideways, blinded by a burning futile white.

And that is how S.H.I.E.L.D. Commando Snowhunter comes back from the dead.

Cold, terrified and covered in his own vomit.

It takes a few short moments for the shock to taper off, for him to stop dry heaving. Snowhunter choked against his dry throat, coughed, sucked in one harsh, thin breath and flailed around until he was half-certain nothing would come back up. The armoured plates on his legs, torso and arms clatter noisily as he struggles to slide and push himself into a kneeling position, then up onto his knees. His vision blurs, his head pounds. It takes seconds of hurried, frantic blinking before he could understand his surroundings at all.

Though there was very little to recognise; he was surrounded by a sea of endless white. Aside from one thing, that is. Something dark, well above. Something black.

Snowhunter blinks again, forcing the moisture to the corner of his eyes tips his head back to look up.

And when he realises just what it was, he screams:

"_Jesus H Christ god DAMN sonuvabitch- HOLY Mongolian clusterfucking- FUCK!_"

If he wasn't nearly dehydrated and on an empty bladder, Joseph would have pissed himself at the sight of an infinite pyramid pointing directly down in his direction.

Thankfully, he cannot. In his haste to escape, he does end up slamming one hand into the mess he'd left on the floor (Floor? Ground? If it wasn't for the gravity he would be unsure; there seems to be nothing of the sort here) but he paid it no mind, too bewildered by the horror above him.

Above, so large that it seemly began beyond his range of vision and ended at a fine point barely ten metres above his own head, a black inverted pyramid much like _The_ Pyramid he was used to seeing floated above. Or, maybe it was suspended mid-air. Either way, there it was. Dwarfing him, where the artefact he knew was barely knee-height and much less intimidating of a scale.

What separates Joseph from the normal man is that he is trained to respond in situations of high-stress. Even when breathing hard, with his brain swimming in terror and fright and confusion, he can usually force himself to move. So he begins to stand up slowly, eyes never moving off of the very point of the shape above until he is drawn to full height. Then slowly, very slowly, he pulls down the polyester fibre mask away from his jaw and down to his neck.

He's unarmed and at risk, but despite the nearly-overwhelming fear, he did not feel threatened, per se. Just shocked and confused.

Very, very confused.

Joseph breathed out in a hoarse whisper, "_What the fucking fuck_" and turned, then, to discover that indeed ― there is nothing but white and this here... pyramid. "Christ." He hissed and spun around. There was nothing. "Fuck. FUCK!"

He snapped his head back again to look up at the pyramid's point.

"What did you do?" He demanded, weakly. "_What did you do?_"

He's not expecting a reply, so when he actually gets one, it's enough to knock him to his knees. Both hands fly up to either side of his face as his head seemingly explodes with-

**TESTINGTESTINGWEUSTHEASEMBLYPYRAMIDISARECONTACTINGTALKINGBORADCASTINGTOATYOUTHEASSETSNOWHUNTER**

-_this_, overwhelming stream of conscious words echoed by a burst of warbling static and flatline warning beeps, somehow both inside his head and out, as clear as his own thoughts and beyond. He knows the tone. It's the cadence of an adult choosing their words carefully. Choosing phrases literally, like it's skipping through a soundboard, a video. Pause, forward, play. Translation, translator. Joseph knows three languages aside from English ― and as of these words are spoken (thought?) in English, he also hears (thinks?) them in German and Russian, he thinks of signals made in ASL. Morse code, music notes. A barrage of words all meaning thereabouts the same thing.

It's not a combination of sounds and words and gestures that should be decipherable, but somehow, the meanings make themselves known inside his head anyway. Joseph groans, presses his forehead against his armoured thighs, and curses at the fact that there is nothing for him to grab purchase. That he keeps his hair short.

It takes a few seconds before the onslaught finally subsides. Once it does, and nothing else happens, he lets out a high, keening noise he's pretty sure he's never actually made in his life and slowly, very slowly releases his head to look up again. He smells blood at the back of his nose. Salt and iron and trickling slow, like something thicker. He touches his nose, his face, his ears. They come away clean. Nothing injured.

Nothing injured, but his head feels fucked up and feverish. Buzzing, alive. But wrong. Wrong. Yet also somehow right. Complete. Like finding a hidden key or a single, perfect answer.

It makes sense. It belongs.

And it's that which makes it terrifying.

"Was that... you?" He asks, voice sandpaper thin and sore, right in his throat, beyond where his tonsils used to be. He's not sure if he's insane, talking to... it? But whatever this was, a dream, some sort of fucked-up hallucination ― it might work. Throw it all, see what sticks, and all that. "I'm talking to you and you to me. That's real. This is real?"

It hits-

**YESAFFIRMATIVECORRECTYOUTHEASSETJOSEPHCOULSONSNOWHUNTERAREAMCANTALKCOMMUNICATETHINKATWITHTOUSTHEASSEMBLYPRYAMIWEUSTHEASSEMBLYPRYAMIDISAREREALLEIGTCEASELESSHERE**

-Again. Snowhunter doesn't grip his head this time, but he does buckle and hiss out in agony between his teeth. The pain wasn't like a symptom of injury; it was pressure, expanding. Growing pains.

Bracing himself against the ground ― no shadows, he noticed, grimly ― Joseph brought himself back up to a standing position, starting from a crouch to a gradual steady rise, careful lest he falls. He breathes in, distinctly aware in the back of his mind that there appeared to be Oxygen here ― or something like it. He blinked up again. The same part of his mind told him absently that he also seemed to be nearly crying.

He looks at it, this massive, endless shape and wipes his face with the back of his armoured hand, the vomit-free one.

Snowhunter did not know the specifics, but he had been slowly broadening his understanding of interdimensional theory since he first got the position at the Parliament, mostly in an attempt to fit in with the Big Heads back in the labs. Largely formed from Jason Wilkes's original concepts, S.H.I.E.L.D. was at odds with the idea of multiverses and as far as Joseph could tell, anyone who had an opinion at all tended to be in a small, isolated group of specialists. It meant that the topic was either astonishingly niche or highly classified.

Joseph was only a Level 5 operative, but like any infantry trooper surrounded by intelligence suits, he'd been swamped with so much secrecy he'd learned to read in-between the lines. _Listen attentively, ask the right questions, and think carefully._ It was what any good operative officer did if they wanted to survive S.H.I.E.L.D. and it's goddamn red tape.

And from what he'd gathered over the last year or so, stood here now, seeing what he was seeing, there was a high chance that S.H.I.E.L.D. was very, very wrong.

"You brought me here for a reason, right?" Joseph asks, with a great amount of unease._ Listen attentively, ask the right questions, and think carefully. _"You have a reason for me being here?"

**WEUSTHEASSEMBLYPRYAMIDHAVEWILLSAVEPROTECTPUTOUTOFHARMSWYOUTHEASSETJOSEPHCOULSONSNOWHUNTER**

This time, the onslaught of information in the way of reply did not knock him over, though it still hurt. Joseph clamped his jaw shut and pressed his molars together with enough force to make them creak under the strain as it washed over him, and when it began to fade, he released. Then he breathed.

And then, he asked: "Why?"

* * *

**_S.H.I.E.L.D. RESEARCH FACILITY, 55-C "THE PARLIAMENT"_ | 4.26.2013 [2310HRS]**

The Commanding Officer's control room was a modest affair, about small as Agent Coulson's office aboard the Bus. Four severe concrete walls decorated with tidy, little personalizations and a large south-facing window overlooking a snow dappled stretch of jagged mountainside.

Phil examines the space restlessly, the fingers of his left hand pressing down hard against the sharp corners of the access card he'd been issued inside his pocket. It's somehow everything he expected and yet not.

It's painfully to standard: one desk, one control console ― offline, but there was little they could do about that until Fitz got the base operational. A small set of cabinets contained his son's personal items. Whoever built the Parliament never considered private accommodation for the protection detail, it seems, for it's obvious that the Leading Officer was actually sleeping in his office instead of the barracks.

There's a couch in the corner between the eastern wall and the south one, a folded pillow wrapped in a fleece blanket nestled at the far end.

"He slept in here?" Agent Coulson surprises himself by asking. He's been mostly quiet until now. Despite the high walls and natural light, the Parliament is a lifeless, unsettling place. The juxtaposition disturbs Coulson ― and seemingly everyone else ― right down to their bones. Nobody has really spoken unless it was necessary since they got inside and saw everything with their own eyes.

The bloodstains in the main thoroughfare still remain.

Skye gives him a look from the other end of the room. She had followed him, on account of wanting to break into the CO's control console when or if the power came online, but Coulson suspects she is also here for moral support.

He's thankful.

The more Coulson notices, the tighter his chest feels. Two black and white photographs, one displaying a group of grinning individuals in S.H.I.E.L.D. infantry BDUs and the other, a portrait shot of Miles Canyon in Canada's Yukon territory, sat parallel below a broken wall clock. There's a S.H.I.E.L.D. Divisional Infantry Batallion standard hanging above the window. Over the desk, a framed certificate from the Institute of Military Academies and a calendar set to December brandishing the image of a white and red Formula 1 racing car hung surrounded by half a dozen yellow and pink post-it notes.

The carpet is blue and scruffed, ground down by bootheels along the quickest route from desk-to-door. The desk lamp is knocked aside.

Phillip Coulson remembers years of desk lamps turned against the wall, of having to switch them off lest they burnt the wallpaper, only to find them turned on again by morning. He remembers how his boy used to hate it when they drove down roads without streetlights at night.

"Too dark," Coulson mutters as his eyes roam around the room and to give his eyes something to do, he traces the severe, straight lines of the concrete architecture.

It's cold and empty and dead. He hates it and he wonders if Joseph ever did, too. Then he finds the empty battle armour stand and the row of tidy, blue and beige uniforms and it's all brought back, the difference between boy and soldier. There was a set of black fatigues in a plastic cover ― Commando dress. Two pairs of spare boots. The room smelled like a combination of abandoned dust, boot polish, and the faint remnants of a deodorant that smelt like oudwood and vanilla. He stops turning in place and for a second, Coulson thinks everything might be okay. That is, until he catches his reflection in the glass of Joseph's IMA certificate and realises that his face is twitching.

Skye notices too and regards him a little more closely. "Hey, AC. You okay?"

_No_, is what Coulson wants to say, but that wasn't the professional answer. Instead, he swallows. "He used to hate the dark. They tried to train it out of him at the Academy, but I don't think it worked."

The younger agent looks across the room, then at the photograph with the smiling troopers. "_S.H.I.E.L.D. Institute of Military Academics Pass-Out 2007, Bravo Squad," _she recites, reading the print at the bottom of the photograph. "One of these him?"

Coulson glances at it as he walks over to hover over the desk. Fury had wanted them to collect everything left behind by the cleanup team, and it seems they have missed a fair amount, given the state of this office.

Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. Commando Snowhunter liked thriller novels, Xbox and scientific articles on extradimensional theory. Though judging by the number of post-its, dictionaries and printed-out webpage articles, he wasn't very good at the latter.

"He was the junior squad leader of his training unit," Coulson informs her as he picks up a dusty iPod touch that lay abandoned in a charging port on the desk. "Should be in the bottom middle row."

Skye squints at the photograph and presses one gloved finger up against the glass, dragging it along the row of faces until she lands in the middle.

"Oh damn," she cough-laughs, and Coulson snaps his head up to look at her as he presses down on the power button on the iPod. After a few seconds of nothing, it lights up suddenly. "Is that what you'd look like if your hair wasn't receding and you worked out more?"

Coulson actually took a step back in affront.

"I didn't mean it like that!" Skye flips both hands up near chest height in surrender. "I just-... He looks a lot like you, is all. Especially around the eyes."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear the first part," Phil replied wearily. In his hand, Joseph's iPod was on the lock screen. It was asking for a four-digit passcode. "Skye can you-"

"Yup." Skye had already plucked it out of his hands by the time he managed to get the rest of his sentence out. She sat on the sofa, reached into her jacket pocket, and produced a small device attached to a lead, which in turn plugged into the device.

Coulson spotted two foldable cardboard boxes under the sofa and bent down to slide them out. As he groans with the effort, he askes. "Do you always carry equipment for hacking music players or did you just decide to trust your luck today?"

Skye tuts under her breath. "I noticed in the dossier that a lot of the bases didn't have wifi, on account of y'know, hackers like me. I asked Ward about it and he mentioned something about carrying modified devices ― then I asked Fitz about it, who had no idea, but May suggested that I ask someone who would, so then I sent an email to one of the officers in the old unit that was stationed here. She told me that it's true, they don't have the internet because it's a security issue, but a lot of the troopers carry modified iPods or walkman's or something similar, mostly for media. I guess it's easy to get bored stuck up here."

"That's some impressive detective work," Coulson tells her, and he means it. "Well done."

"I don't know how much will be on it, intelligence wise," Skye continues, but then gave Coulson a significant sort of look as she stands and hands it back. "But... I figure either way..."

Coulson nearly smiled, but then he looks down at the background image on the screen, sees the photo his son stood in nothing but his boots, helmet and underpants, brandishing a rifle while stood on top of a stone statue shaped like the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo mid parade ground scream, and his expression collapses into something that was supposed to be irritation. Instead, he just feels miserable.

Skye claps him on the elbow. "I know it might not work out," she mutters, voice low. "But... I honestly think it is gonna work out, AC. There's hope, y'know?"

Then she droops slightly, eyes darting up as, in a spurt of flashes, the overhead lighting begins to flicker on and off and on again. After a few seconds, they remain lit for a good solid ten seconds before shorting out and relighting again. Looks like Fitz has managed to get the power on.

"At least, I hope so." Skye sighs. "I really hope it works out."

It's the same maybe-certains that Coulson has heard since the day he was notified, but unlike Fury, unlike even May, Skye sounds about as sure as Coulson usually did; half-hesitant amidst the internal war between simple logic and sheer desperation. He smiles, grim.

"Me too."

* * *

**_SOMEWHERE UNKNOWN_ | ?-?-? [?HRS]**

Here, the Assembly tells him:

They are beyond the universe as he knows it ― this universe is only one of an infinite number. Worlds without end. Earth is one of many. This place, this great white empty, unique amongst many.

Some on Earth know of the Multiverse, some have even come into contact with the Assembly before, but communication has always been fleeting, cordial. Humanity's understanding of the Assembly is lacking, and so the Assembly moves onto other universes, other worlds in the multiverse, looking for someone who might truly understand. Someone they can use.

They call this place the Empty. Or, rather, they call it something else ― or nothing at all, even ― but have given it a name that Joseph, human and therefore limited as a direct consequence, can understand. The fact that he is standing here at all is a major circumstance. From what he can understand, the Assembly places the Conduit ― the Pyramid, in strictly-controlled locations across different dimensions. Last time it was on Earth, the Terra plane, was well beyond Joseph's time.

They swap locations depending on the security of the Conduit. Move it from place to place.

When the Parliament was attacked, they changed location. Joseph hasn't been on Earth ― or even in the same dimension as Earth ― for the last... God knows how long.

And now, they are back. The Pyramid has returned to its predetermined location back in his original world because they cannot keep Joseph here in the Empty forever. He needs to return home so that he may continue to live; long-periods of time spent outside one's original dimension can prove damaging to one's health over extreme periods of time, at least that is the jist of it. The Assembly had but one word: _undoing_.

That, and there is a threat to the Empty, on the Earthly plane. One the Assembly wants him to get rid of.

For the Empty is a world within the multiverse, but not like the others. It is a web, a sea. It is both the boundary that keeps the respective dimensions in once place and the glue that keeps them together, shifting slowly in controlled mediums. The Assembly is the Empty's guardians.

And Joseph will be its weapon. He will be its defence against those on Earth who seek to enter the Empty, change the unchangeable for means that would doom the rest of the Multiverse.

**CONGRATULATIONSWARNINGWEUSTHEASSEMBLYPYRAMIDHAVEHASCHOSENSELECTEDFORCEDDOOMEDYOUTHEASSETJOSEPHCOULSONSNOWHUNTERASOURTHEPROTECTORGUARDIANCHOSENONEPUPPET**

They say.

This is what Joseph thinks:

S.H.I.E.L.D. is an organization of goddamn dumbasses.

He stands, looking up, blood pounding in his head as he thinks upon the information he is... given, and listens to the rapid _thud-thud-thud_ of his heart. He thinks of simpler times, he thinks of other worlds and separate universes and people out there seeing what he's seeing. He thinks of the Assembly, this goddamn Pyramid, calling him their chosen one and thinks of shit like Anakin Skywalker, Harry Potter and Frodo Baggins. He wonders how his life of a cheap-ass sci-fi serial drama managed to actually become more cliche.

Mostly, he thinks about a year of intense study from the brightest human beings in the world with their seven doctorates and high-brow ideas. Joseph thinks about how all had to do to prove them wrong was walk up to the Pyramid and slap it.

In the end, however, all he is left thinking of is how nothing will ever be the same again. He doesn't know what being their... _Asset_ means. He has no idea.

All he knows is, he can't say no.

* * *

**_S.H.I.E.L.D. RESEARCH FACILITY, 55-C "THE PARLIAMENT"_ | 4.26.2013 [2317HRS]**

"Here's the problem," Fitz gasps, red-faced and out of breath. He'd run all the way up into the main thoroughfare from the downstairs basement and generator level with Ward and Simmons. Ward was the only one not out of breath. "When I plugged into the system once it came online, I noticed that a lot of the secure-level lockdown protocols were still in place. I thought that it might be an emergency response triggered by a reboot so I went to deactivate them as normal, but when I looked up the logs the date on the last shutdown was still five months ago."

Coulson scowls and puts down the box he was holding. "So what does that mean?" He asks, forcing calm. "Fitz?"

"It means," Fitz continues, looking panicky and just the slightest bit uncomfortable. "That the last shutdown was in fact, five months ago. None of the doors have been released from lockdown protocol. The lower base hasn't been touched since the attack, sir."

"How the hell is that possible?" Skye interrupts. "They sent a team, didn't they?"

It took Phil a moment to register what Fitz was actually getting at. "You mean none of the people we sent in the cleanup and investigations crew touched the lower levels? They didn't investigate the Pyramid?"

"We don't know for certain, sir," Ward says, voice carefully natural and eyes glaring at Fitz. "The report explicitly states-"

"But what if the report is wrong?" Skye demands. "I've been learning about that systemware Fitz is talking about, it's pretty reliable. It can't just lie. _People_ can."

"All I'm saying is," Ward grits out the words as if it's almost painful for him. "That the report was ordered by the Director himself. You all read it."

"Unless the Director didn't want to find an answer he wouldn't like," Simmons declares, and all three of the remaining Agents look up in shock at the acidity in her tone. "It's been bugging me since we first got the mission and I read the dossier. Cleanup and investigations take _months_. Agent Coulson was notified of Commando Snowhunter's MIA status and the report was finalized barely a week after the initial conflict. Now I'm not alluding to the possibility that S.H.I.E.L.D. has been deliberately deceptive, but don't you find that odd?"

Skye blinks. "You mean Fury just left a S.H.I.E.L.D. officer to die."

Ward grimaces. "He knew the ris-"

"Ward." Coulson demands, voice level. "Do not finish that sentence."

Agent Coulson breathes in, then out. Three seconds in, three seconds out, as they teach you, but the possibilities swimming in his head make his vision blur and his stomach drop.

"Fury has gone to lengths to ensure that I am fit and capable of continuing my job," he continues, forcing calm. "Which includes me being undistracted from my work after hearing about..." It hurt to say the name, so he diverted, picked something else that worked. "- Snowhunter -" that worked, well enough anyway. "- but we're going down there, no matter what. There is a strong possibility that the Pyramid might be down there. That is the job we came here to do."

He stood up straight, swallows, and then stares dead-on at the elevator that led down into the lower levels.

"You're an intelligence specialist, but you've never worked with the troopers before. I have. There is one thing, one rule, that you follow." He levels his gaze at Ward. "S.H.I.E.L.D. troopers never, ever leave other troopers behind and not look back. If I go down there and find out that Fury left my son to die in this godforsaken tomb without sending anyone after him, there'll be hell to pay."

* * *

**_SOMEWHERE UNKNOWN_ | ?-?-? [?HRS]**

Being possessed by an extradimensional entity is not exactly comfortable.

Something snaps, in his head, in the air. He's closer now to the very point of the Pyramid, close enough to touch, but the ground seems as close as it did before. There is a scorching ache along the length of his body and in the centre of his mind, it feels like his head is going to explode-

**RELEASELETGOSURRENDERYOURSELFYOUTHEASSETJOSEPH COULSONSNOWHUNTER LETALLOWUSTHEASSEMBLYPYRAMIDINSIDEWITHINTHROUGHLETALLOWCONCEDETOUS**

Joseph groans and hunches back instinctively, but his feet won't move and the feeling doesn't subside. For a split second, he feels like he's falling ― but he isn't. His feet and legs are somehow more behind him than they were originally, as if his chest is being pulled beyond the rest of his skeleton, but isn't there gravity here? How isn't he standing upright yet clearly doing so at the same time?

The feeling of falling is still there, too. Out of his own body ― no, wait. Down but not out. It feels right, but wrong. Like he's being stretched and shrunk and wrenched out of his own skin and then stuffed back in at once. Like the ache from earlier, growing pains.

But this isn't a pain in his elbows and knees, unexpected troubles from adolescence that came and went with every growth spurt. This is everywhere and at once.

**LETALLOWCONCEDETOUSTHEASSEMBLYPYRAMIDTOTAKECONTROLMASTERDOMINATECOMMANDLETALLOWUSTHEASSEMBLYPYRAMIDTOSHOWEXPLAINDEMONSTRATEWHATHOWYOUTHEASSETJOSEPHCOULSONSNOWHUNTERISAREAMCAPABLEGIFTEDQUALIFIEDFOROF**

He hears the Pyramid ― the Assembly ― say this both inside his head and outside, but it also seems both high above and down below, like he's lying underwater and they are beyond the surface.

Snowhunter chokes out in alarm when something presses inside his core, right in his chest. Like a sucker-punch but within. Then, he realises. The Assembly is having a hard time getting a proper grip. They make him understand. Their bodies are different, assuming if they even have 'em. They don't fit properly, either in his frame or in his mind. They don't see the same things the same way he does and it's a mindfuck.

He feels sick.

**YOUTHEASSETJOSPHCOULSONSNOWHUNTERWILLMUSTPROTECTDEFENDSAVETHEPRYAMIDTHECONDUITUS**

The Assembly says, right as Joseph Coulson says with his voice, so it's theirs and his but neither of theirs at all, "I will defend the Pyramid."

And just like that, he lands. The soles of his booted feet slam into a concrete foundation. The wails of sirens scream and echo and bounce off of the walls, they hurt his ears.

Doesn't he have a headset for that? He thinks, hazily, as his body turns around to face the rest of the containment chamber.

There, beyond the radius, the glass shielding rises more slowly than it descended. To Snowhunter, this makes sense, but his body isn't focusing on the glass, of freedom. He's looking at the two human males crawling through the gap towards him. One is further along than the other and the one behind is shouting. For a long moment, Joseph doesn't recognise them, and he feels what his body feels ― deep anger, a burning desire to defend.

"You're not supposed to be in here." He says, they say. He-and-them. The two men stop in their tracks. The closest one near to him looks up.

And somehow, Joseph recognises his own face.

Or, well. Some of it anyway.

But then recognition and understanding hits. Phil Coulson is stood in front of Joseph Coulson and that is just about what his mind can just about make out _but_ ― the Assembly, they either don't know, or they don't care.

_Wait!_ He thinks, _Wait no!_ as his body lurches forward for the rifle discarded on the floor.

* * *

**_S.H.I.E.L.D. RESEARCH FACILITY, 55-C "THE PARLIAMENT"_ | 4.26.2013 [2329HRS]**

Coulson feels real fear when he sees the half-torn open blast doors. His stomach drops when he picks up the discarded radio headset. What he feels, when he sees the blue armoured-clad figure stood straight, arms extended at the elbow, before the Pyramid, is a combination of agony and a heart flooded with relief.

Only, he is a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and nothing is ever that simple in his line of work. He knows it, but his heart refuses to believe.

"Get that containment shield up!" Coulson half-barks, half-orders. He paces around a good five metres of the rounded barrier, trying to see, daring to hope. The figure isn't moving. It's been five months and the person isn't moving.

(He can't call it his son, not yet, not yet)

Fitz is typing with such speed his fingers don't seem to be visible, and Ward is saying things, many things, but Coulson isn't really listening. Simmons has her medical kit out on the floor and is unzipping various pouches and ripping open various flaps. Skye is unloading the device Fitz had engineered to pick up and place the Pyramid into its containment chamber.

The Pyramid. It's right behind the person, the figure, the soldier. It's been five months and then some and... God fucking dammit.

Coulson is going to _kill_ Fury.

Phil is so emotional that he doesn't feel Ward grabbing his leg when he dives under the containment shield. Nor does he really take into any consideration the man's persistent shouting. All he can think about is-

"_Joseph_!" Coulson shouts the second he gets onto his feet. He uses his clear, loud, calling-to-potential-adversary-or-civilians tone. "Snowhunter!"

He thinks he can hear Joseph say something ― and it _is_ his voice, that very same bastardized Seattle-Nevada mix with the faint European softening that came with a disrupted childhood and many years of service.

But then he turns around to face him, and it is clear that everything is not okay. The sight makes Coulson's stomach twist and harden as if he'd been sucker-punched.

He's bloody, is the first thing. Faint-red pooling under his nostrils and flowing down over his lips. Bloody mouth, too. Bloody ears, Phil notices when the boy's head turns to register Ward. There's red matted in the fine, short hears on either side of his head as if it had been rubbed in ― and sure enough, when Agent Coulson looks down, there's blood on his fingers.

"You're not supposed to be here." The boy says, tone-bland and Coulson stops, gesturing for Ward to do the same. He looks up from his son's hands to his face.

There. The very faintest change in expression. For a moment, Coulson feels elated when their eyes meet.

But then his son his moving and the hazy happiness turns into instant alarm as he instinctually picks up on the aggressive body language. Without warning, Joseph barrels forwards and tucks forward in a roll just as Ward rears back to ready his rifle and before Coulson can even say or do anything, S.H.I.E.L.D. Commando Snowhunter is armed, looking down the sights of his rifle and aimed square at the pair of them.

"Do not come closer," Joseph says, finger on the trigger. "We will not let you come any closer."

[ 🛆 ]

**Author's Note:**

Well, things are going to start kicking off. This chapter was fairly difficult to get down but it's been a long time coming! Thank you all for the follows and likes, it means a lot!


	5. Interlude: Funeral

**| INTERLUDE |**

**SNOWHUNTER:**  
FUNERAL

* * *

It's not until the funeral that he realises he doesn't remember how ties are supposed to work.

Leading Officer Joseph P. Coulson hasn't worn civilian clothing since 2007. His entire life is a strictly ordered existence carefully suspended between protection escort missions, rapid-deployments and the stringent military spaces in between; the only clothing he owns are S.H.I.E.L.D. Infantry uniforms and his BDA's ― blue or cameo-beige, occasion depending. None of it is appropriate for a civilian funeral.

Much less his father's.

"I'm sorry for your loss," _Captain America_ says as he shakes Joseph's hand. He's looking too hard into the surviving Coulson's face, eyes too earnest and smile too polite. "Coulson was a good man. He inspired us when we needed it most."

Joseph ― not Snowhunter, not here. Not with Fury's one-eyed glare burning a hole into his back ― doesn't know if the man means the Battle of New York, the Helicarrier generally or something else and he cannot ask. The report, or the variation of the report Fury has deemed appropriate for him to read, did not specify. What Joseph really wants to say is _it's not your fault_, but that isn't the proper response either.

"Thank you," Joseph replies instead. It's the proper thing to say in this situation, wherever it's a regular human being or the very archetype of American Nationalism in the flesh, and therefore this is what he goes with. "I'm glad he got to meet you."

A very slightest crease forms between Rodgers' eyes. Joseph feels bad the moment he recognises it, but he pretends not to notice. His eyes gloss over it instead, seeing but not seeing.

He didn't mean it, but it doesn't make it any less true, does it? A very young childhood of red-white-blue, of cute gag-gifts given to his father by his father's workplace family until Joseph got old enough to loudly object. Little things: the card collection they never got back to him though it's explicitly in the last will and testament, the comics, the figurine. The S.H.I.E.L.D. interhouse network password he'd memorised on the sly. Things as old as time and never changing. Things Joseph has no problem remembering because it's burned into his subconscious as hard as the protocol and the codewords.

The ugly, snide part of Joseph thinks it's fitting. He tries to banish it away.

_It's not Rodger's fault_.

"And I, him." Rodgers shakes his hand one last time before stepping aside.

When Captain America has turned away from the half-shadows stood accusingly under the nearby tree, when he thinks nobody can see him, he hunches inward and his expression looks peevish. This is another thing Joseph deliberately does not regard.

This whole sordid affair has been nothing but a string uncomfortable things gone 'unnoticed', one after the other.

If you had asked Joseph if he would have gone to this shitshow of a memorial service, he wouldn't have known what to say. It sounds wrong to not want to go to your father's own funeral, but the truth is... He's busy. With a squad of U20s coming up on their six-month Active Experience mark, it's his job to organise transfers from their training squad to their big boy ones. He's got phone calls to make and personnel files to build. He's got seven individual futures to determine. He's got a secret research base to protect. A goddamn alien entity with dangerous properties to guard.

He's busy. Busy living the life of a cannon fodder henchmen in a tacky budget sci-fi show. He doesn't have time for dramatics.

But no, Fury did not ask and there was the distinction. He ordered Joseph. An email and a return ticket, a suit that he could have maybe fit into three years ago, which directly correlates with his last physical. Condolences tactfully peppered amongst two very specific demands.

Joseph doesn't like it, but he's used to the whole parade by now and that is why he is here. Sideshow Joe. Walking talking parade-ground puppet, watch him stand here and do as he's told like a good little soldier. Yes, Director. Sir, yes sir.

The nature of S.H.I.E.L.D's work often necessitated for Agents with little to no living family. The best spies are orphans, alone and abandoned with nothing tying them down and nobody to wonder sadly where they'd gone when they disappear. His parental grandparents are long dead. He has no uncles, no aunts. His mother had been S.H.I.E.L.D., but she had passed over thirteen years ago from emphysema. There is Audrey Nathan, but Joseph could never and would never blame her for this. Joseph was on his own now, really, and it's no different than how it's been all his life.

Well. Alone is subjective ― for in S.H.I.E.L.D., wasn't it the workplace family that really mattered? Blood is thicker than water but even that runs thin against camaraderie.

Only thing is, even in S.H.I.E.L.D., there were families within families, creeds amongst creeds. These folks, with their Level 8s and secret-spy missions, their non-regulation uniforms and world-saving escapades, they're not Joseph's people. Judging by the weary looks thrown in his direction by Barton, Romanov and Fury, they know it, too.

Joseph tries not to let his frustration show, but it's difficult. He had done everything right. He grieved during his issued one-day bereavement leave. He scheduled a video appointment with the therapist. He didn't go on drunken rampages or shut himself off from his work, he did everything _right_.

And yet it still wasn't enough, because he's not just Snowhunter and he's not just a soldier; he's the inferior offspring of a man he could never hope to live up to. He has to show up to this civilian funeral in a suit that doesn't fit, spend three days away from his unit, his people, because Fury probably figured there would be too many eyebrows raised if Coulson's only son didn't show. That it would be weird, despite it already being _weird_, because while Joseph might be the only blood relative he's also the only odd one out and it's _fucking obvious_.

He doesn't belong here. It's horrendously apparent, with every confused lapse in pain-edged conversation as people talk about accomplishments and old jokes that Joseph doesn't get, with every confused glance he can't quite hide when someone brings up something about his father that Joseph didn't know about because, how could he? He's pretty sure Coulson spent more time with the people stood grieving now than he has ever spent with Joseph in his entire life.

But that's just how it is, isn't it? Of course, it is.

"This isn't for you," Fury tells him, voice low enough and far away enough from everyone else that Joseph knows they cannot be overheard. He shakes Joseph's hand because they're technically not on duty, not that Joseph would have saluted Fury anyway. The Director knows where the authority lies, because it skipped over him and settled at the feet of Field Commander Gonzales. "It's for the Avengers and the agents. Those fought with him until the end and wanted to pay their respects."

"Yes, sir." Joseph says, rote.

Fury narrows his good eye but doesn't say anything else and Joseph has to wonder if the Director has always thought him to be a complete degenerate or if it only started after his more famous of pre-adolescence exploits. It probably doesn't matter anymore, anyway.

Damage done and all that.

He doesn't have much time to think about it. Audrey Nathan, the woman his father dated after he saved her life and only introduced once to Joseph because it was getting serious, approaches him next. He lets her embrace him and touch his face, lets her brush her fingers over the fabric covering his shoulders and tearfully declare how much he's grown, despite the fact that Joseph is twenty-four and hasn't crept up a centimetre over six foot since he was seventeen.

None of this is Miss Nathan's fault. He kisses her on the cheek and tells her that he's sorry, too. He breaks out of the soldier-shell just enough to remind her that Coulson wasn't just a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, that there was something before and something set aside, even though he himself barely recognises the man any other way and now, never will. Like the codewords and the protocol, the red, white and blue. Some things just stick in the mind.

(_Suit. Tie. A frustrated glance._)

Anthony Stark is dark-eyed under his sunglasses and his tie is askew. His suit is worth ten times over more than Joseph's, but it looks somehow worse; he's crumpled and undisciplined and angry and out of everyone in this fucked up ensemble, he's the only man who probably understands where Joseph is coming from at all. The look they share is the same. Uncomfortable, teeth-gritted, the weight of twin legacies neither of them wants to carry bearing down on their shoulders. He wanders up to Joseph and slaps him on the arm.

He says, _sorry about your dad, kid _and flees without running, as if the contact stung. He's replaced by some twitchy guy in prescription glasses, some dork with a nervous energy muttering something Joseph thinks and assumes is an apology. He shakes Joseph's hand too.

Agent Hill is still Agent Hill and if he was anywhere else, he'd be amazed at how she can look so different and yet exactly the same. She salutes him first so he has no choice but to salute her back and he is grateful. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to.

Agent Romanoff shakes his hand and says, _You must be proud of your father_. It's not a statement, but more of a level, hidden demand. Joseph doesn't deviate from his Good Son Show and therefore doesn't take the bait. He's heard stories about Romanoff, how she gets around those she trusts, respects, and knows better.

Indeed. Joseph off-hand knows about Romanoff, who is close to Fury, and has probably, therefore, heard things or assumed things (_damage done, damage done_) and thinks it best to disengage. The difference between disappointment and disapproval is slight, but important.

Instead, he nods. He's done a lot of nodding today. "I am, Ma'am. Always."

Clint Barton, who once stood Joseph on his shoulders, kicked soccer balls around half-empty parking lots, and taught him how to shoot a bow and arrow, stands with his arms folded and doesn't approach.

Joseph has heard the rumours, of course, and so is not expecting it.

But unlike what people may think, Joseph doesn't blame Barton any more than Rodgers. How could he?

Agent May is the last one, and Joseph is glad because he's exhausted and if any of them are at risk of breaking his composure, it's May. May, who his father talked about the most, always fondly and never with an ounce of disrespect. May who used to be a lot like Joseph, who broke rules and poked fun at the stiff-backed suits, but changed sometime during his childhood and barely expressed anything more than a tense smile afterwards.

Guess in that regard, they're very much alike.

For a second, he thinks May is going to shake his hand like the rest of them ― but then her own polite mask breaks and Joseph finds himself stepping forward to grab her knuckles before he can remember to stay at parade rest. She squeezes his fingers so hard he knows he'll have bruises.

"Phil was a good man, Joseph." She says, quiet and intense. He nods back, near frantic. She knows more than he does, and so he assumes she is very much correct. May is a decent enough judge of character he is sure and deep down, he hopes she is right. For her sake at least.

Joseph squeezes her fingers back and says, overly-loud to placate the suspicious glance thrown his way. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

That's that. The line of grieving near-strangers dissipates into singles and twos.

Joseph plays the good son and buries his father. He crosses himself with old catholic reflexes he never quite let go. He returns to the S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse they loaned to him ― he leaves the suit on the bed. He boards the plane, travels back to Liechtenstein in a blacked-out saloon and tries not to look at the purple-yellow marking his hands.

Under the sterile-white lighting of the Parliament, they're brighter than they were even before. There's no chance he can't look at them like that.

Thing is, though, Joseph has terrible circulation and the mountain air is cold. So he wears gloves. When they finally fade, nobody bats an eye. It's nothing unusual.

Snowhunter reassumes command. He returns home and everything goes back to normal: the Parliament is the same way he left it. He dresses back into his full cold-weather uniform, forgets how to tie a Windsor knot now that it is no longer relevant to his daily life. Someone apparently liked him enough to do his paperwork in his absence and there is actually much less to catch up on than he feared. There are no new developments to take him off guard; Combo is still a solid second-in-command. Nothing new there.

Nothing new anywhere. He sits at his desk and draws up deployment rotas. He patrols the empty, isolated base. He thrashes his troopers at pool in the barracks room. He stares at the Pyramid from behind its containment glass and half-understands the chief researcher. He puts new and steadily more complex textbooks and references material onto the delivery list. His life is a consistent unending bombardment of _S.H.I.E.L.D.―Parliment―Pryamid―Troopers_.

His father is dead for one month, then two, and soon it becomes the new normal. Five months and it is like Joseph had never even left in the first place; the pages on his calendar change but amidst the off-white concrete walls, everything feels the same as it always has.

And that's just how it is.


End file.
